Hell Plays Matchmaker
by ArtOfHowWeGrieve
Summary: It is an AngelPOV. She knows she is about to die and cannot stand to see Collin's sad anymore. What if Angel didn't die at the hospital? What if Angel died by her own hand?


"Ament Amore"  
  
author: Lady Maeve  
  
disclaimer: Rent belongs to Mister Larson. I just want Angel.  
  
warning: a very sad, sad fic. Read at risk.  
  
Angel shuffled through her closet quietly. Not even the birds outside made a sound as Angel selected a white flowing gown, fitting for the occasion. Today was a special day. Today was a day when Angel's feelings changed. No, not for Collins. She still loved him selflessly. And it was selflessness which pushed her to act today.  
  
Something was spreading within Angel. Evil and tainted. It was connected to her power source, her heart, and sapping it's strength. Angel knew she was dying. These days, death never left her sight. She saw it's phantom loom behind every curtain, inside every closet, and under every bed. Death was extending it's hand to her.  
  
Angel was not a malicious or violent person. She did not curse her soon-to-be murderer, AIDS, nor did she hate the person who gave her the disease. And there was never a time when Angel resented her blood for betraying her. Angel only saw it as a thing that brought her and her lover, Collins together. Collins, too, was HIV positive and it was ironic how hell played match-maker.  
  
Angel slipped the dress down her cinnamon-colored body and enjoyed the watery feel of cool silk against bohemian skin. She made sure to enjoy it because her time was limited. She would soon be sent to the hospital- and she hated hospitals. They were cold and vile with their resigned walls and the smell which burned your nerves away. Angel didn't want to go to the hospital. She did not want to be a glass-eyed puppet on her deathbed. There was a way to prevent that.  
  
Collins' voice surrounded her, impossibly real. Yet, she knew he was at work and would not be home until evening. It was still noon. His ghost image looked at her with anguish as she stared at herself in the mirror. The gown was lacy and pure against her slim, fragile body. She shook out her long, obsidian-colored wig and fixed it properly on her head. It almost resembled a ritual. She brushed on sparkly, clear lip gloss and dusted her eyelids with ice-pink.  
  
Collins' sweet voice echoed in her head from many nights ago. They were standing on the beach, the smell of past rainy evenings drifting in the air. "You don't deserve this hell," he once confided softly. "Angels don't deserve this hell. You deserve paradise, baby. You need a way to spread your wings." The final whispers of the memory evaporated into silver smoke and Angel walked through it to a pink sheet that she took out of her stationary paper. Using an azure-colored glitter pen, she wrote;  
  
_Gone to spread my wings,  
  
-Angel_  
  
The note was placed upon the dining-room table where, otherwise, flowers and dinner would be laid out, awaiting Collins. Angel then stepped into the bathroom, feeling as light as the air. The bathtub was already filled with water up to the rim. Ice cold. Angel's heart suddenly fluttered wildly and her stomach felt queasy. With the force of a bullet, reality came crashing in and Angel felt like she had suddenly awakened from a dream. Her body was no longer on automatic and her slender hands curled into fists. Suddenly, the world was too noisy, too dirty, too fast.  
  
Angel forced herself to relax. She thoughts about Collins. She couldn't let Collins stand by and watch her die, bit by bit. His feelings of helplessness would tear him up inside. She still loved him as much as she did the day she met him after his mugging. He was left with no money, a torn coat, and a pessimistic attitude. She took him in, and he returned her shelter with a thousand sweet kisses.  
  
Angel went back even further in time as she gazed at the water, captivated. Collins' loving voice was replaced with echoes of taunts and teases. "Fag," they called her. "Girly-boy." "Dirty transvestite." Angel shuddered at the memory, the hurt reminding her of those never-healed scars.  
  
Angel slowly lowered herself in the water, not even feeling the coldness as it numbed her skin and crept in spider-trails up her gown. She lay down and closed her eyes, wishing for the world to leave. And slowly, the dirt, the noise, the darkness left her senses. Her head slowly went underwater and her mind was in a far-away place that believed in faeries and angels. In a place where everyone could see her wings.  
  
Collins eased the door open and called out his lover's name. Silence greeted him coldly. Something was off. His eyes stumbled across the pink stationary and the sparkly blue letters jumped out at him.  
  
"No!" Collins looked around the loft hurriedly. His eyes flew to the ajar bathroom door. He flew into the room, the door flung open in his haste. The sight that greeted him was the most beautiful, yet most tragic he had ever seen. Lunacy gripped him. A pale enchantress, adorned in white, floating in blue. Black hair swam around her in a halo. For a moment, Collins froze and a hysterical laugh escaped his throat. "There's a dead goddess in my bathtub." Then, slow realization and sanity stole over him and he plunged his arms down into the water, grabbing Angel around her waist and lifting her out. Her skin was freezing and her lips were blue under the lip gloss.  
  
He lay her down upon the tiled, bare bathroom floor and ran in search of the phone. Dialing 911, Collins couldn't even speak as a female voice answered him. His shaking hands finally dropped the phone after his few unsuccessful attempts to state that his universe had just killed herself. Collins walked with unnatural slowness over to Angel and dropped to his knees by her side. He felt tired, drained. His arms went around her and he lay his head on her chest. The coldness of her skin was seeping into him and he closed his eyes, wishing to sleep forever. Silence deafened him.  
  
The ambulance came minuted later and bore Angel away. She was apparently still breathing at 3: 52 pm. Her heart failed at 3: 53 pm. Collins stood up and left.  
  
"Tom Collins, vagabond anarchist who ran naked through the Parthenon." That was what Angel knew him as. Not only as a respected professor at NYU who taught computer-age philosophy or a homosexual who cannot defend himself from a mugging. Angel had taken him in into her home, her life, and her heart. But all good things must come to an end and if there was one thing Collins learned, it was that the gods didn't keep their prisoners alive very long.  
  
He was angry. Angry at the gods, at himself, at the person who gave Angel AIDS. His anger drove him outside, to the radioactive sidewalks, the cardboard houses and the plastic people. A deep ball of hatred welled up in Collins and he looked up at the cheaply-lit sky. "Gods!" he screamed. "Gods, you fucking betrayed me! Gods, I fucking hate you! Gods!?"  
  
Visions of Angel haunted him and he looked around himself in raw rage. He could still see his lover on the hospital bed, out of drag. It was a handsome young man in his early twenties, sweet and pure, yet ghastly pare. Dead. Taken from him too soon.  
  
Exhaustion crept over Collins for the second time that day and his body felt like dead weight. He sat down on the sidewalk on the corner of 11th street and avenue B. The plastic people passed by, not even glancing in the direction of the African-American with long braids a little past his shoulders and white letters spelling "Papi" across a black shirt matched with jeans.  
  
Immediately, the thoughts of his own passing shifted through his head yet he stopped himself with a jolt. Angel wouldn't of wanted him to think this way. Angel was so chaste. All resentment fled and all that was left was uncommited peace. Angel had done her job. Angel made a difference in someone's life. She showed them how to love.  
  
"Go spread your wings, baby. It's your turn."


End file.
